Somewhere in the midst of the vacillation between the present and past, the songs become timeless.

I’ve deleted at least ten attempts to begin to say something about M. Ward’s latest offering, Post-War.
Ranging from pseudo-historical stances of his revivalism to histrionic
statements of his importance, all seemed too conscious of the processes
at work behind that sound and that sentiment, yet none
mentioned the obvious: This is easily the most confident and compelling
listen from one of the most confident and compelling performers in the
business. Attention has quietly increased with each release, slowly
accumulating into the kind of unquestioned respect given those artists
one expects to be writing about in 20 years. Critics casually slipped
both Transistor Radio and The Transfiguration of Vincent
into numerous top-ten lists; he’s name checked-by everyone from Conor
Oberst to Neko Case; and now the buzz has seemingly caught up with the
admiration of his peers.

Post-War is Ward’s first with a
full band, and the crackle of the interplay is evident throughout. The
rollicking music sounds like rock ’n’ roll did before it had a name,
when it was little more than an unconscious expression of unrest. The
title carries echoes of post-WWII roots music as much as it does our
current political landscape. Ward’s AM dial-scanning didn’t end with
2005’s Transistor Radio. The buzzy leads of “Right in the Head”
and the saccharine strings of opener “Poison Cup” sound sampled from
some Platonic version of early ’50s Americana. Don’t be misled by my
ramblings, though—this album is more relevant than whatever week’s
newest Bush-baiting indie release; it just looks to the past before
moving into an uncertain future.

Somewhere in the midst of the
vacillation between the present and past, the songs become timeless. On
“Chinese Translation,” Ward spins a tale embedded with a mythical sense
of time. He begins the song “I sailed the wild, wild sea/Climbed a
tall, tall mountain/I met an old, old man beneath the weeping willow
tree,” inhabiting the wandering troubadour persona as effortlessly as
the wind picks up sound in the summer air. He enters the song so
completely, I barely noticed that the final two minutes are
instrumental, rendering words wholly unnecessary.

The tranquility
of the title track reinforces the arc of the album. It is far from a
song-cycle, yet the album has a recurring theme of return to a world
that has moved on. As Ward sings, “Don’t they love you in mysterious
ways?/You say ‘yeah, but this is now and that was then,’” the listener
hears the irresistible gravity of looking to the past for comfort in
his mournful voice. Skeletal, yet overflowing, the disc’s an elegant
elegy and half-remembered hope. Post-War covers too much
territory for a grand summation and easy affirmation, but be assured
that few albums this year will achieve the mastery of its craft so
eloquently.